


many things will change (though some will stay the same)

by biswholocked



Series: JWP 2016 [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Food, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have an argument.</p>
            </blockquote>





	many things will change (though some will stay the same)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day six of JWP. Today's prompt was: A crime/mystery/anecdote/scenario involving food. As complex or simple as you wish to make it.
> 
> Seriously considering adapting this and including it in [A Day Late](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5782783/chapters/13327153) at some point.

“I was thinking Indian takeaway for dinner. Sound okay to you?”

Sherlock dismisses John’s words with a flick of his fingers and continues staring at the sitting room wall where every shred of evidence he’s compiled on Magnussen is pinned up. Different colored strings mark different possible connections, but there’s just  _ one piece _ he’s missing, the one thing that will fully explain the connection between Mary and Magnussen.

“Sherlock.”

“I don’t eat during cases,” Sherlock snaps, turning to face John. “You know this, so stop blathering on and let me  _ think! _ ”

John works his jaw and his fingers clench slightly by his sides. “Right. My apologies for trying to keep you alive.”

“Don’t be dramatic, John. It doesn’t suit you.”

“No, of course not. Better I’m just a pawn in your stupid,  _ bloody _ games. What else am I good for?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to reply, but John beats him to it.

“No, really,” he says, getting angrier. “Why am I here? Not as a doctor -- you refuse to let me see your wound, let alone tend to it. Not as a colleague, since you won’t tell me anything about the case you’re working - which, by the way, involves my own wife! And it’s certainly not as a friend, since you seem so eager to completely bury any attempt I make to reach out to you.”

The accusations hit Sherlock in the solar plexus, taking his breath away.  _ To keep you safe _ , he wants to say, but the words won’t come.

John sucks in a deep breath. “I’m going out,” he announces, walking to the door.

_ Wait. John. Please, I… _

The door slams closed behind him, and John’s angry footsteps clatter down the steps before the ground floor door opens and shuts. Sherlock doesn’t have to go to the window to picture John walking quickly down the street toward the Indian place, head down and hands stuffed into his pockets.

Sherlock turns back to the wall, but the papers and photographs have lost his interest. As emotions swirl in his stomach, his body starts to make itself more known; his knees and feet ache from standing, his eyes are scratchy from lack of sleep. Taking deep breaths only seems to worsen the dizziness that’s suddenly pushed its way to the front of his mind.

Surrendering, he collapses onto the couch and everything quickly goes black.

* * *

 

When he wakes, the flat is dark and quiet. He has a crick in his neck from sleeping in an awkward position, and his legs are tangled in a blanket that wasn’t there before.  _ John. _

Groaning, he sits up, then stands. His stomach rumbles with hunger, and the wound aches. The pain medication has to be taken with food, so he stumbles into the kitchen and shakes two pills out of the orange bottle before opening the fridge.

On the middle shelf, there’s a takeaway container, full of curry and naan and the rest of Sherlock’s usual order from the Indian place. He scarfs it down in the light of the fridge, too hungry and impatient to bother heating it up. It still tastes delicious. By the time he’s finished the medication has started to take effect, blocking out the pain and covering his thoughts in a nice haze. Still, he has the presence of mind to scrawl out a note and leave it on the kitchen table before shuffling down the hall to his room and falling asleep on top of the covers on his bed.

* * *

 

The next morning, John finds the note along with the forgotten takeaway container. The handwriting is terrible, even for Sherlock, but there’s no mistaking the words on the page.

_ Thank you. _

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always welcome and appreciated!


End file.
